The Devil Incarnate (The Devil of Ponong series #2) (10 page)

Damn that QuiTai. Had she told them to act as his caretaker?
He snorted and leaned back so far in his chair that it almost tipped over.
People looked away as he noisily righted himself.

If she walked in right now, Lady QuiTai would pause at the
typhoon shutters that way she always did when she made one of her grand
entrances, as if she were taking the stage. She’d be dressed impeccably, either
in the latest Thampurian fashion or in the bright green sarong she favored.
Once she was sure she had the attention of everyone in the Red Happiness, the
corners of her mouth would curve up in that secretive, mischievous, satisfied
smile of hers. Then she’d glide through the bar as if she owned the damned
place.

She probably did.

She’d stop inches
from his table and make one of those withering remarks about how drunk he was.
He’d laugh, because her choice of words was always clever, but he’d also wince,
because they hit their mark with unerring accuracy. And then he’d say something
equally vicious, or as close as he could ever come to matching her wit.

Those conversations had been the only stone against which to
hone his mind since he’d set foot on this damned island. Now she might be dead,
and he’d have to figure out a way to hang onto his sanity until grandfather let
him go home.

He scratched his nose. Who would know if QuiTai were alive?
The Devil would. Kyam chuckled to himself and shook his head. Sure, the Devil
would know, but how did one go about asking the Devil a question? The man was
maishun spirit, as insubstantial as a ghost.

Someone gripped his shoulder and jostled him.

“Zul!”

Kyam lifted his gaze. Governor Turyat and his sinister
shadow, Chief Justice Cuulon, loomed over him. He knew he should invite them to
join him, but he wanted to be alone. Besides, he’d never liked them, and now
that he had his articles of transport, there was no reason to pretend to be
civil anymore.

Part of his distrust was from the tales Grandfather had
hissed into his ears about how, years ago, these two men betrayed him.
Grandfather had been the first colonial governor, the one who’d claimed Ponong
for the king. From his stories, he’d hated every moment on the island as much as
Kyam did. When he’d gone back to Thampur, he’d schemed and connived until the
Zul clan had risen to the enviable position as the most profitable and powerful
among the thirteen families. He’d become the king’s right hand. But Grandfather
was never one to let anything go.

The rest of Kyam’s dislike of the men was purely their
fault. They’d eagerly signed his articles of transport, but they’d also
approved of keeping the islanders on Cay Rhi as slaves. If QuiTai was to be
believed, they were corrupt to the core. He felt that they took every coin they
could but never really governed the island. It was perhaps beyond their
abilities. Or maybe, like as was the case with most Thampurians exiled to
Ponong, their ambitions had long since wilted under the relentless tropical
sun.

“Zul, why are you
still here? Don’t you want to go home?” Governor Turyat asked as he sat without
an invitation. While tall with a thin build, sagging flesh at his throat showed
how much weight he’d lost recently. His thin lips were too red to be natural.

Chief Justice Cuulon
remained standing. Like the governor, he was tall, but his rangy build had
never filled out. His temples were as bare as his prominent forehead, which
glistened under the lights. Something about his strong nose made it seem as if
he was always smelling something he didn’t like.

Kyam didn’t want to
talk to anyone now, especially these two. “Governor –”

 
“Turyat, please.” The governor chuckled
in an avuncular way that grated on Kyam’s nerves.

If he’d had any manners, Kyam would have insisted the
governor call him Kyam instead of Zul, but he didn’t.

“We need to talk in private,” the Chief Justice Cuulon said.
“Please come with us.”

Kyam lifted his empty glass as if it needed closer
inspection. “I would, gentlemen, but as you can see, my schedule today is
already full of rum. Tomorrow, I will be busy nursing a smashing hangover.
Perhaps sometimes next week?”

The chief justice’s mouth twisted. “Typical Zul.”

“Now, now, Cuulon. Don’t take offense where none is meant,”
Governor Turyat said.

“Who said none was meant?” Kyam muttered.

Chief Justice Cuulon’s cavernous nostrils flared as he drew
in a deep breath. “All right. We’ll talk here. You tell your grandfather that
we won’t stand for his interference.”

Kyam expected more to the message, but they strode away. He
still couldn’t get the barkeep to look at him. He felt as if people were
staring at him, and it felt like pity.

Kyam got to his feet. Not bad, he thought. Not slobbering
drunk. Maybe the Red Happiness had done him a favor by cutting him off. Come to
think of it, he’d never seen anyone dead drunk in their bar. QuiTai demanded a
certain amount of decorum in her place, he decided.

He knew he held his shoulders a little too rigidly as he
walked past the white wicker chairs on the veranda. Who would care if he were a
little drunk? As far as anyone knew, he was still in disgrace, still living off
remittance money his family sent to keep him far from home and out of sight.
They didn’t give a damn what he did because he was beneath their notice.

The afternoon sun stabbed the inside of his skull when he
stepped out of the shade onto the street. Wasn’t it monsoon? Where were the
clouds? And why did the sun always shine brightest when he was drunk? The
street was still muddy, though. He stepped around puddles that reflected the
sky.

Four soldiers leaned against the back wall of the bank. When
they saw Kyam, they stood straight and saluted. At least someone knew what he’d
done for his country. He managed a wilted salute in return and continued on.

Two steps into the town square, he stopped. Confused, he
looked back over his shoulder. The bank was still there. A flock of green and
blue birds pecked at the dirt by its steps. He turned back. Gray monkeys played
around the banyan tree’s massive trunk, but there were no children. He
scratched his head. The colonial government’s building, with its red columns
and Thampurian-style roof sat on the south end of the square, but there wasn’t
a single Ponongese boy on the steps calling out offers to carry packages for
Ma’am or Mister Thampurian. In the center of the square, a merchant was
striking his stall. Kyam didn’t blame him. There were more stalls than
customers, and there were no more than a dozen of those.

“What the hell?” Kyam asked, but there was no one around to
answer him.

Where were the Ponongese ladies who balanced huge baskets on
their heads as they strode through the market in their bright sarongs? Where
was the clash of merchant’s voices hawking their wares? The smells of tamtuk
stands and fish and spices? It looked as if a typhoon had blown through and
swept them off the cliff into the Sea of Erykoli.

Kyam walked quickly home now, his head down as he tried to
make sense of it. He knew his landlady said something to him as he dumped his boots
on the rack in the foyer of the apartment building, so he mumbled something
back and started up the stairs.

At the top landing,
he glanced at his neighbor’s door. He’d been avoiding them since he’d returned
from Cay Rhi. How could he take the hospitality of people when he’d let his
government hold their relatives in slavery? But if they couldn’t get to the
marketplace, they might need his help finding rice.

Too ashamed of his
state to let the children next door see him, he stumbled into his apartment, removed
his jacket, and fell face-first onto his mattress.

~ ~ ~

When a door slammed,
QuiTai jumped to her feet, suddenly fully
awake and ready to fight. Pain shot up her leg. She dropped onto the divan when
she saw RhiLan scowling furiously at the door. The black lotus had almost worn
off, but she struggled for a moment to clear the haze that hung over her
thoughts. She wasn’t in danger, and this was something she needed to focus on.

“Those damn
Thampurians!” RhiLan banged her market basket down on her chopping block and
pulled fish cakes out of it as she muttered.

“What’s happening?”
QuiTai asked. Her voice sounded as tired and weak as she felt.

“We can talk about this out on the veranda,” RhiHanya told
her cousin. “The Wolf Slayer needs to rest.”

QuiTai pushed RhiHanya’s hands away when she tried to make
her lie down. “What’s happening?”

“The soldiers wouldn’t allow any Ponongese into the
marketplace today,” RhiLan replied. “I wonder if my man was able to get to his
boat.”

RhiHanya’s fist rested on her hip. She couldn’t seem to
decide if she should scowl about the soldiers or at QuiTai.

QuiTai leaned on her side to see around RhiHanya. “Did the
soldiers say why they wouldn’t let you sell?”

RhiLan shook her
head. “I tried to show them my permit. It has the chop of the colonial
government on it. If they had only looked, they would have seen it was
official. They let the Thampurian merchants set up their stalls, but they
wouldn’t even let me shop.”

QuiTai was concerned
and confused. This was bad business in more ways than one. The Thampurians
couldn’t be stupid enough to ruin their own merchants, could they? It was so
unlike them. Normally they grubbed after every coin they could get their hands
on.

“I was able to buy
fishcakes for the children’s lunch. I have no idea what we’ll eat this evening
since I couldn’t buy rice.” RhiLan wrung her hands together.

“Maybe your man will bring home a fish. We can go without
rice for one day,” RhiHanya said in a calm, reasonable tone that seemed to
soothe RhiLan.

“But what about tomorrow?” QuiTai asked. “If RhiLan can’t
sell her sarongs, she won’t have money for food.”

RhiHanya spun around to wag her finger at QuiTai. “Don’t go
looking for more trouble when your bowl is overflowing with it already.”

“You can’t eat trouble, and a stomach full of it will keep
you up at night,” QuiTai countered. “And our squabbling is only making auntie RhiLan
uncomfortable. It solves nothing.”

“But we did solve the problem! We plan to set up our own
market in Old Levapur tomorrow,” RhiLan said with modest pride. “I’ve been
spreading the news.”

“That’s a smart idea.” QuiTai pulled on her bottom lip.

RhiHanya gave her a sharp look. “You don’t sound happy about
it.”

“I have questions. Why are the Thampurians doing this? It
makes no sense. I need to think. No more potions. They dull my mind. And I need
–” What she needed was quiet, no distractions, and a place to pace, but
how could she ask her hostess to leave her own apartment?

“But why don’t you like the idea of a market in Old Levapur?”
RhiHanya asked.

It was always harder to open her mind to the bigger picture
when people insisted on dragging her back to one element of it. That was one
thing she’d enjoyed about Kyam Zul. He could almost keep up with the speed of her
thoughts, and he knew how to hold his tongue. She wondered if he’d already left
Levapur or if he was in the fortress. Those seemed like the only two options.
She hoped he hadn’t been blamed for her escape with the slaves. If he’d been
hailed as a hero for discovering the Ravidian plot, he’d probably immediately
have asked for, and been granted, articles of transport. He was probably
standing on the deck of the
Golden
Barracuda
and facing home with a cocky grin on his face. That image brought
a twinge of regret. She’d miss him.

“I guess I could go
to one of the stores for rice,” RhiLan said unhappily. “If I can find one that
will take my money. I made the mistake of going into a Thampurian store when we
first moved to Levapur. The merchant cursed me and shoved me out.”

“Or...” QuiTai sat up.

Thankfully, RhiHanya and RhiLan didn’t speak or even move
while her brain furiously wove together the threads of an idea. Oh, it was too
beautiful. Did the Thampurians really hand her such an opportunity? Pleased,
she smiled to herself.

The Devil was feared for murder, blackmail, and occasional
kidnappings. Those violent crimes had been the werewolves’ realm, and she’d
rarely been involved. She’d considered such ventures a foolish waste of time
since there was little money in them, especially considering the risk. What
people didn’t realize was that the bulk of the Devil’s business came from black
market goods. That’s where she’d established his power and made his fortune.

No werewolf worth
his swagger would be caught dead selling something as boring as rice, Petrof
had told her. They weren’t lowly merchants. They were hardened criminals. Or so
he’d seen himself; what he’d really been was a cowardly lowlife thug. But she
didn’t want to remember how she’d elevated him from that to being the Devil. It
was too embarrassing.

What she chose to remember was that she’d ignored his
sneers. She’d bought rice from smugglers and corrupt traders and sold it
through her lieutenants. Then she’d expanded into other staple goods. They weren’t
exciting or flashy, but they’d made a steady profit. Of course, the Thampurian merchants
had to pay that outrageous import tax to the colonial government while she didn’t,
so she could always afford to sell for less than they could and still earn more.

For a moment, she doubted her plan, but she’d successfully
raised the price of black lotus. According to LiHoun, her customers had been so
fearful of a shortage that they’d been grateful to get any, even at the higher
price. Her grin spread. Only addicts bought black lotus, but everyone in
Levapur ate rice, even Thampurians.